


Golden Glitter

by Nelula (TheRatofGoodiness)



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Blood and Killing in the Beginning, My First Fanfic, So be warned, Will add tags as the story progresses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-15 21:28:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28820001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRatofGoodiness/pseuds/Nelula
Summary: After retrieving the sixth human soul, an ancient skeleton finds himself in too much pain to do what he does best; kill humans. So, what happens when one falls within that time period?(I'm trash at summaries)
Kudos: 1





	1. Chapter 1

The Ruins door opened with an irritating shriek; a child with green, wandering eyes stepped out. His crunching footsteps were like breaths in a silent church, wincing at the bite of Snowdin’s fierce cold.

A shadow moved ever so closer from the tree line towering over the path. A sharp bone gently flourished in their hand as they waited behind layers of trunks and branches.

The child was on edge, desperately grasping his only form of defense to his chest, a burnt pan.

The shadow died a cigarette on their palm.

His body trembled with fear, fingers stiff around the handle. Why did he have to leave the safety of Toriel’s home? The monsters in the Ruins were so kind and welcoming that, even despite her warnings, he refused to believe anyone on the other side of the door was an enemy. He could feel the eyes on him, though, the figures in the shadows. A ruthless animal on its haunches hiding in the trees, ready to pounce. God, he was naïve. How could he even—

a twig snapped.

_Huh?_

He turned.

A huge wave of force pushed him to the ground, sending the pan flying.

Dark as night shadows, a figure stood menacingly over him. Even without seeing its face, the boy could feel the hunger in its eyes.

At the sight of the horrifyingly sharp bone in the figure’s hand, he scrambled to escape in a heap of desperate terror, the adrenaline pumped through him. They had no intention of letting him go that easily. They grabbed a hold of his leg. The boy, falling on his stomach, cried out and flailed in their iron grasp, scratching at the snow. The monster yanked him back by the knee, set their boot on his ankle, and watched the fear pour from his eyes. “N-No, please!” he whimpered and begged and pleaded, but it was too late. The figure stomped on the ankle, and agony bolted up his leg like lightning.

He shrieked to the sky, sweating yet freezing, heart hammering, couldn’t get enough air. The ache throbbed his leg. _Is it broken? Oh, God, it’s broken._ His thoughts raced a million miles a minute. His eyes scanned the place for any possible escapes or solutions. Nothing. It was a barren wasteland out there with nothing but trees and a path he would never walk.

But the figure was not done.

They knelt to him; the sharp end of the bone pressed up against his heaving chest. Slowly, they drove it forward, staring at the boy’s twisting expression. At first, it was nothing more than the “prick and sting” the physicians warn you about before they jab you with a shot. But the “prick and sting” grew more intense as each centimeter tore through muscles. He choked on blood; white, hot torment mercilessly screamed just above his heart.

He realized then that they were skinless, empty holes in place of their eyes, sharp angles pointed from the cheeks, a frigid grin reached where the ears should have been.

The world around him grew darker with each passing moment. His body drooped with exhaustion. He was freezing. A puddle of his own blood expanded like an inflating balloon.

If the pain stopped, he would welcome death’s embrace.

In one last act of desperation, the child placed his hand on the skeleton’s arm. The recipient jerked back like they had touched a hot burner. They ripped the bone from the child’s chest. His eyes fluttered, grasping for life, before closing entirely.

The skeleton stuffed the green soul into a jar, tucking it into his coat.

He didn’t bother to wash up the bloody mess he had made.

Asgore found that the Capital was quiet, today. No appointments, nothing to tend to around his home, just him alone with the golden flowers bathing in the hope of the Underground. Two more souls and freedom was theirs for the taking.

“Your majesty,” his messenger called. “What is it, Darius?” He looked excited. “Garon’s caught another one.”

The King frowned.

“Bring him in,” he commanded gravelly.

Of course, it had to be Garon.

He was a member of the Royal Guard and unlike the others, he was…eccentric when it came to removing humans from the underground. Undyne and Asgore were similar in their methods; quick, painless, and moral, whereas he liked to drag it out for as long as he could.

A stoic and quiet man on the outside, Asgore had seen on multiple occasions his lust for human blood, and those instances still haunted his dreams even in present time. He had lived in the Capital as Asgore’s right hand man before leaving to pursue his own path. To figure out more brutal ways to slaughter children, the King presumed.

The man himself walked into the throne room

His expression was stony underneath the blind spot of the sun’s elegant rays. A jar was in his hands where the very reason he had come glowed neon green. He stared not exactly at him, but somewhere off in the distance. The King could see small dots of blood on the surface of his bony face. He could clearly see an image of human flesh separated into small pieces settled in a pool of crimson. Discomfort scuttled across his body like ants. That was being generous.

He cleared his throat. “Ah, my dearest friend Garon, how do you find yourself this wonderful morning?”

He did not answer, and did the King expect one? He knew him well enough to realize that he did not do pleasantries. Just straight to the point, nothing more.

The reticent man thrust the jar forwards urging him to take it.

Reluctant, the King delayed, “Perhaps we could discuss the matter over tea?” The offer had to be pushed harder than he wanted.

“Asgore…” he warned. There was an overwhelming amount of tightness behind his tone like he was ready to snap at any sign of inconvenience.

“If not tea, then maybe we can settle this matter over something else, then?” he tried again. He lifted his hand, “Take it.” The soul inside the jar glowed vibrantly, as if begging to be removed from his hands. “Bring it to me.”

“Don’t want to.”

Asgore knew what he meant.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to, he simply _couldn’t._ Garon hated the sun though the King could not think of a time where he was without it. Its gentle, warm rays reminded him why he pressed on against the ever-so alluring thoughts that blackened his mind, his son and daughter. They had died under that sunlight; it was only right he listened to its call.

The royal goat was more than happy to oblige the skinless man. Bony fingers placed the soul into large, furry ones who cradled it like a newborn baby. He looked down at it almost affectionately.

“You have done a formidable deed for monsterkind, today.” _And me, as well_ , he wanted to say. Killing humans for their souls was a job that no man could do without grief. It was a wonder Garon could do it while maintaining his sanity. Truth was, he had lost it years ago, but the King had no need to know that. “On behalf of everyone, I thank you for your services once again.”

He turned to realize that he was speaking to empty space.

Typical Garon fashion.

Any other way would have been deemed uncanny.

He refused to be away from his patrols for more than a couple minutes due to his obsessiveness over the humans. Unlike Papyrus-his polar opposite-his motives were a bit unclear to the eye, and Asgore was content with that. As long as he delivered the souls to the Capital, of course.

The King ambled to the barrier and placed the sixth human soul in its proper place.

The Capital was quiet.

“Christ.”

A dead child, discovered by Sans, lay in front of the Ruins door in a pool of its own blood, stone cold with wide eyes staring into the ceiling. The strange part was that his first thought was noting the lack of bits and pieces. Other than he and Papyrus, only one man patrolled the Snowdin area.

“I know you’re there, Garon, come on out.” The bastard always came back to his kills to sneer at them for some odd, arrogant reason. He could and would never figure it out.

The other skeleton appeared beside him.

“You take the soul to the King?” He had to ask in case he brought it upon himself to keep it like he did the last one. The purple soul was several months old when it was found by a curious citizen behind a waterfall hidden in a glass chamber. “Mmm.” He knew that was the best form of an answer he would get out of him.

Something was off, though. There was an air about him that he couldn’t identify. Some kind of strange feeling that he wasn’t doing very well. Was he in…pain?

“You alright?”

“Fine,” he snapped.

If Sans could frown, he would have. He knew enough to realize that wasn’t the truth but didn’t push it. The man was one to house many secrets in that skull of his and if he wanted to keep them, he was most certainly allowed.

It was his duty to keep the skeletons together, even if he did not accept Garon’s methods.

“Got anything else in mind for today? Don’t suppose another one will drop by.” The stony man shrugged. He looked back at the corpse. “Who’s gonna—” but he was already gone. “Fuck you, too, then,” he chortled. If he wasn’t going to clean it, then neither would Sans.

He strolled back to his post. He would continue his elegant work of slacking off until someone else found the body.

He leaned back in his chair, rested his feet upon the counter, and fell asleep.


	2. Killer Fever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sans makes a new friend through his stellar entertainment and Garon has a dream...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been staring at this chapter for far too long, and I just want to move on so here it is!

A few years later, and that body was long gone, trapped in a coffin underneath Asgore’s throne with the soul it gave at the top.

Sans found that each finger he laid upon that stone cold body, a chill ran up his arm and to his chest as if blemishing his soul with sin. He would’ve gladly taken bits and pieces over the incessant wide stare the child gave. At least he didn’t have to see their face when they were chopped up. And that reason was a large part of why he gave the dogs a polite No thank you when they asked if he wanted to assist with carrying the carcass. They looked like they were already carrying seven tons of steel on their shoulders. No, he would much rather loiter at his post and kill time than carry the not-so-dearly departed like a carpet.

Papyrus was dismayed when he learned of the event. Garon, in his eyes, was taking opportunities from him to become “Oh, so popular”. For Sans, it was the exact opposite. If Papyrus somehow got a job with the Royal Guard, that would defeat the whole purpose of keeping him and Garon away from each other. It took most, if not all his effort to sustain a respective distance between the two. And if they were equal in their positions, that meant they had to be in the same room together at some point, talking to each other, and Sans knew that the more vindictive skeleton would not hesitate to exploit Papyrus’ gullibility for his own gains. Sans would die if he saw his brother become anything like him. Still, it was difficult with them living in the same region of the Underground. Snowdin town was tiny in comparison to Hotland or Waterfall and if Papyrus caught a glimpse of the famous Royal Guardsman, he would no doubt confront him. And if he pissed him off…

Sans didn’t want to think about what he would do to him.

Now that he thought about it, he hadn’t seen Garon in a long while. The skyscraper of a skeleton was remarkably elusive in his hunt for human blood that Sans could never seem to find him. However, even the best Royal Guardsman needed a break every now and then, so it was only a matter of time before he returned, whether he was in the trees or the bushes. 

He was more than capable of handling himself, Sans reasoned and if there were any problems, he would obliterate it off the face of the Underground. Yeah, he was alright, at least, that was what he would keep telling himself. Whether he wanted to or not, it was his job to worry, given the trio of skeletons were the last of their kind. And he would stop at nothing to ensure they survived.

To him, Garon was a wall that he could bounce jokes off of when they were on break, someone he could talk to about things he would never admit aloud, knowing that each secret planted was one that would stay there for the rest of time. Perhaps, he gave him no words of comfort or reassurance, it was, however, better than keeping it all inside. But he did enjoy Sans’ company, had to; why else would he keep coming back?

During his absence, he told knock-knock jokes through the Ruins door as a way of killing two birds with one stone; he could slack off and still be a somewhat efficient patrolman. Maybe not as much as Papyrus, but it still worked out. If any human were to pass through the door, it was an easy capture. He didn’t kill, never would unless required. He wasn’t like Garon who could cut people open and still have lunch. But that was not a good trait to have, he decided.

He left that all behind him when he took a shortcut to the door. Fidgeting with his fingers, he relaxed against it. The ring of silence was nice every once in a while, no brother to boss him around, just him, the trees, and the narrow path that led to a whole lot of nothing.

Each visit brought a sense of realization. Was the Underground really this small? The ceiling looked as though it sank deeper and deeper with each gander, like any moment it would be within arm’s length. Still much taller than he, of course, but if the sky was the limit, then they would be _very_ limited. How could they even think of trapping an entire race in such a small space? Maybe there were only thousands of monsters to hold, but that number grew daily, just like up there. Did they not consider that when they trapped them? Did they not think they would reproduce? Of course not, why would they? They didn’t care. They were too busy blaming the war on everyone else to even consider their living conditions, when in reality the rivers of blood, piles of bodies and dust, fractured souls, it was all on them.

Worst of all, he couldn’t assist his kind in any regard. Without the old man, he and Alphys just didn’t synchronize well. She wanted to do this thing, he wanted to do that thing, it did more harm than good for monsterkind. A damn shame it was. All these problems would’ve been fixed long ago with good ol’ Wing Ding-a-ling by his side—he still laughed at that nickname to this day. The old man was a good friend, one that he missed more than anything else. 

But enough of that. It was time to tell some jokes.

He readied a banger. “Why was the skeleton sad at the dance?” He paused, expecting an answer. “Because he had no _body_ to dance with,” he snorted. He could tell that joke for the next generations to come and it would never wear down, just goes to show the extent of his humor.

A woman’s muffled giggling rang softly behind the door. Sans, who was still recovering from the joke, felt his soul blare with fear before settling to listen to it. The hearty laugh made butterflies in his chest flutter.

“That must ‘a been a good one.” She gave a sigh, the laugh still lingered. “My apologies, that was an excellent joke.”

“Aw, thanks, door-friend, I’ll be here all night. Wanna hear some more?”

“Gladly.”

“Alright, your funeral.” There was a pun book in his pocket. He pulled it out, flipped through some of the pages, and fired away. 

“Door-friend, what do you call a belt with a clock on it?”

“I do not know.”

“A _waist_ of time,” he beamed. She gave the same bark of laughter that could make any man fall to his knees.

They stayed like that for hours, making small talk and even bigger jokes. 

Over time he noticed a certain lightness to his body, like a concealed weight had lifted off his chest after a lifetime of suppression. It felt good to hear her laughs through the door, just wished they were face-to-face so he could see her smile. The vision brought warmth to his cheeks.

Garon’s absence wasn’t so bad, not if things stayed like this. The door-lady was like a mother listening to her child stutter through an awesome story with a tone to match. Not only that, but the fact that she even _laughed_ at his jokes was more than enough to inspire him, let alone with such fervor. He could get used to this.

After all, he had nothing but time. 

For Toriel, it was a much needed laugh as well as the first step in gauging the man’s fidelity. She needed to ensure there was someone out there willing to watch over a human child before she sent them on their way. The world out there was filled with monsters, _true_ monsters, who did not feel for the innocent. She had already heard multiple accounts of repulsive acts that haunted her dreams at night; chunks of flesh, pools of blood, and she refused to let one more human child leave to die at their hands. She had had her fair share of grief and didn’t want lose anything more because of her mistakes. She would make sure of it. 

* * *

The Surface air was clean of its usual stuffiness, today. A skeleton waited on his porch where he drew in a breath…and let it all out in one long motion: the purity ran through him like hot chocolate in the winter.

A beautiful morning crowned at the north side of Garon’s village. The trees guarded his eyes from only seeing the top of the sun, the mist glowed from its peering rays. This was the perfect day he was looking for; not too warm but not too cold either. If it were like this every day, he’d be more inclined to wake earlier.

An excursion was planned for the day, and he practically bounced in his chair while he waited for his mother to return. He wanted, no, _needed_ to get out there while the good weather lasted. If he started any later, it’d be too hot outside to do anything, as summer was apt to do. The best days were scarce, lasting for only a few hours before it really cranked up the heat to degrees even he could not withstand. The outdoors was his second home so he would take all the time he could have with little to no breaks in between.

Whether he was chasing Dominick around, exploring the forest with Lily, or assisting his father with his latest project, he had an insatiable desire to be active and, luckily, he had parents who supported every bit of it.

An inhale of wind rustled the sighing trees.

The village was heavy with silence under the rising morning sun, void of the usual turmoil when it was fully awake. Not even the birds were awake enough to sing their lovely songs. It was… almost unsettling.

He could hear the echoes of screaming children as they overthrew the silence in a coup that could be heard for miles. But now not even the adults were outside to relax into the morning. It was only him, surrounded by the world’s heavenly beauty.

The wind picked up speed.

Something wasn’t right. Perhaps it was too quiet, too empty to be named normal.

“Mom?”

No response.

“Mom?”

A hint more desperation in his voice.

“No, no, no, no, no.” 

He burst through the door. “Dad? Dominick? Where is everyone?” No sign of them. His anxiety was a hideous worm burrowing painfully in his chest.

He checked the house, under the beds, in the closets, in cupboards, under tables, walls, floors, sofas, _everywhere_!

He scrambled down the stairs. The house groaned and shuddered, threatening to be ripped off its foundations against the slamming force of the wind. He sprinted through the door, took a gander at his surroundings. 

The world around him was black with despair, not a single thing could be seen save for his home. He could see the memory, the bubbling, how it felt around his arm, but the name was gone. He knew this wasn’t the night, more like a tsunami which tricked your perception of reality, rippling timelines into thin waves of paper.  
  


That didn’t matter. What did was the fact that it was moving ever-so closer. 

“Hello!?” he tried to shout but the words were ripped from his mouth, carried off for someone else to hear miles away.

The wave, standing tall as a titan, continued its approach. Multiple solutions ran through his head, but the squirt of fear tainted any kind of reasoning. 

“Garon, honey, what’s going on?” Over the noise of the wind and adrenaline coursing through him, his mother’s voice was like a singing angel amidst a sea of grumbling demons. “M-mom?” thin and weak, almost frightened, his sound was nothing compared to her heavenly notes delivered from God. He couldn’t feel how happy he was, but the way his eye sockets stung told him all that he needed to know. He wanted to turn to her, see that wonderful face that he hadn’t the chance to see in so long.

But he didn’t get the chance.

He was yanked by the shirt, feet fully off the ground to meet the face of his father, riddled with holes and decay, a smell that would stay with him forever. His head snapped to the side in an ugly twitch that he knew well. “Hey, k-kiddo. H-How’s my killer this morning?” Horror, hot and thick, crawled up from his waist to dance with his ribcage. He cried out, struggled out of his father’s grip, legs falling out from beneath him. He tried to stand but staggered forward and smashed his head into the railing. He rolled onto the stairs.

The bubbling void began to wrap around his bony arm and gently tugged on it, gesturing for him to come into the ocean of black.

Panicking now, he pulled away from it, but something was pushing him back in. All four members of his family, dotted with large, jagged holes in their skulls and clothes that were more soaked rags than anything else, stared at him lifelessly as they all pushed him towards the void. He grabbed a hold of the railing and wedge his feet in between the slots on the opposite side.

“Feel that fear, Garon?” his mother yelled over the howling wind, mouth not moving for she had no chin.

“T-That helplessness to stop your inevitable demise?” his father this time, a twitchy half-grin took a sadistic shape on his face, the other half was busted open.

“Yeah, think about how we felt when you did nothing to save us,” Dominick shouted from the floor, missing both his legs and a few teeth.

“We thought you loved us,” his sister joined, large, razor-sharp scars cutting deep circled her head and formed permanent tears.

The force on his back was suddenly unstoppable. He pushed against it with the rest of his strength, leaning every bit of weight to stop them. Mere inches away from the infinite, the pas de deux in his chest skyrocketed into a scream of unhinged terror. He pushed harder, running on adrenaline now. “Just let it take you, son! No use fighting against it!” The sound of his thrumming soul muffled his father’s voice. “Come on!” His body was giving out. The pain was too much to feel. Couldn’t speak.

_SNAP!_

The sound broke over the wind like a dry twig, his spine had snapped. He buckled outwards with a cry, releasing his grip. His head collided with the rest of the stairs before succumbing to the sea of despair. 

Like waves on the shore side, the substance repeatedly dunked him under its grasp and with most of his body still stranded on the stairs, he drowned in it, eye sockets boiling with agony. He shrieked to the sky of black, flailing helplessly in the watery shit burning him.

On the porch, his family held him by the feet. “Goodbye, Garon!” they laughed. 

And, as they released him, the horror morphed into fury he could not sense. “You motherfuckers, better come get me, _right now_!” Couldn’t see their reactions, too fucking pissed. Couldn’t hear, couldn’t feel. He was sinking, can’t swim without legs, no no no. “ _Hey!_ Are you guys fuckin’ deaf? _Come get me out of here!_ ” Oh, shit, it was up to his shoulders. “ _Please!_ ” Desperate, now with death getting closer. The porch was empty, almost like no one had even been there. The very source of his anger had gone and now he felt like an idiot—a fool pissed with people who didn’t exist. 

Calm gave him time to clear his thoughts with the submersion of his body. 

He couldn’t blame his family for pushing him, he was the reason for their pain.

He could have done anything at all to stop the invaders from pursuing their torture, yet he did not. He sat up there on the hill with his basket full of fucking apples and watched like the coward he was. And for that, he deserved every bit of this perpetual fall. There was one part of him that wondered, however; was this really the end of his road? He was a teenager with his whole life ahead of him. There was so much out there to explore and discover, it was just too bad everything had been ripped away from him before he could truly act on his curiosity. Shame, could’ve done something with himself.

Oh, well, if this is what fate had in store, then he had no choice but to buy. 

He closed his eyes and accepted his death. 

* * *

That same skeleton, now older and stonier, awoke to a vastly different life clouded with ill.

As he sat up to observe his surroundings, he hissed.

A mix of desperation, anger, and pain stewed up in his skull to create the worst headache of his life. The pressure turned every thought into mush while simultaneously splitting his head in half. His body burned in the endless lava sea of Hotland and with each agonizing movement, he shivered as if the wintery winds of Snowdin blew through him, caressing every angle and hole in his bony body.

He had been sick with an eternal fever that forced him in bed for the week.

_I’m missing my patrol_ , was the most prevalent thought to cross his mind. Not his sickness or the fact that he felt like his head was about to burst, but his patrol _._ There was a human on its way.

He could feel it.

And if they got there before he was ready, who knew what would happen. Maybe they would clean the Underground of its monsters by spreading their dust, maybe not, as the prophecy went. But he knew better. He knew there were no “good” humans out there and if they pretended to be, it was just that: an act, a façade, before they cut his people down into dust.

It was his job to stop them and right now, he wasn’t doing it. They could be walking to Hotland, manipulating his kind in a sea of lies to play in their twisted game, and he had no way of helping in his condition.

So now what? Just wave your hand and say, “Oh, well” before you crawl into bed? You pathetic creature. The Underground really did a number on your endurance, huh? All loosened up pretending to play house in a place where _you don’t belong_. 

He slapped himself. 

“Get out of your head, Garon. Come on, shake it off, that’s not you,” he reassured even if it wasn’t true. He was a killer in a land of good-natured people where he stuck out like a thumb. And, you know what, he accepted that long ago even if it hurt to see the people who he sought to protect with his life fearful of him.

He got up from his bed and shook off those thoughts.

Walking to the kitchen to grab something to eat, he realized how cold it was. His home was a shack in the woods, dilapidated with shattered windows and holes in the creaky floorboards. Cobwebs decorated the corners and torn, moldy furniture did little for comfort. 

The cupboards, like always, were empty. A tired groan rolled around in his chest. Why did he expect anything else?

He returned to his room, the worst looking place of all. The ceiling threatened to cave from the immense snow and moisture, the walls were dented with unnatural holes with floor in the same condition. But none of that mattered to him. On the back wall above his bed, four vials full of dust and capped with gold represented the source of his woe.

One by one, he removed them carefully.

Each one had a name taped on the glass, “Mom, dad, Dominick, and Lily,” he said aloud, breathless. Their faces, crumbling and busted, flashed across his eyes; their screams burned into his skull as towering forms pummeled his family.

His soul swayed from side to side in his chest, sorrow squirmed from beneath a pile of other emotions to sting his eye sockets. No! He would not cry. He would not. That isn’t what they would have wanted, not to mention how much it hurt.

Instead, he placed the vials back on their respective rings with trembling hands. He sat there on his bed for a moment, trying his absolute hardest to contain the sudden ball of numbing fury. 

Just like in his dream, he took long breaths, imagining the pure Surface air coursing through him to calm his racing soul.

Better.

With a huge sigh, he crawled into bed, snuggled up to the warmth the blankets gave. After his small fit of grief, the nausea and chills returned full force. He needed to see someone sooner or later, but he _really_ didn’t want to leave this bed anytime soon. The other side of him needed to get out there and start his patrols once more, though. Perhaps, if he wasn’t better by tomorrow, he’d talk to Alphys, see what was wrong. In the meantime, he’d sleep it off and hope everything worked itself out.

And that was just one moment that set off an endless chain of events.


End file.
